


Lips of an Angel

by darklycomic



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-05-12 08:34:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5659729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darklycomic/pseuds/darklycomic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the volatile aftermath of what seemed like the perfect love story, Jared Kingston finds himself regretting how it ended. He's not usually the type to get sentimental, but there's something about Bo Barrett that keeps him coming back. But how will the already-moved-on Bo take it when the man who broke his heart returns?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jared

They hung goddamn Christmas lights in the waiting room. Underneath murals of scenes from our nation's history, and just above a sea of people sitting in silence, they put up busted, unlit, cheap Christmas lights, as if a bit of holiday cheer would make jury duty feel less soul-suckingly dreary. They were the kind of Christmas lights you spend hours untangling after they spent a year in storage, and the kind that you swore to wrap up neatly last year, but ended up jumbling together and throwing back in the cardboard box after the Christmas spirit wore off – the kind you send to your daughter in college when she decides she wants to “brighten up” her dorm room.

Christ. It wasn't even fucking Thanksgiving yet.

I had to wonder whose idea it was to put the lights up, but I’m pretty sure I had my answer when I saw the clerk who looked like one of the reject Golden Girls, wearing a pearl necklace, librarian glasses, and a knitted sweater vest with little pine trees in a row across her saggy, old lady chest. ...What a bitch.

I put my feet up on the chair in front of me and started to scroll mindlessly through my Facebook newsfeed, for lack of anything better to do. Bad idea. There they were: Bo Barrett and Michelle James, together again – not yet “for better or worse or in sickness and in health” or any of that crap, but if Bo had his way (and he usually did), it would be heading that way soon enough.

A sick feeling churned in my gut at that thought. I wanted to look away, but something masochistic in me kept my eyes glued to the photograph, forcing me to take in every detail and to stare into his squinting, smiling eyes.

It shouldn’t have bothered me so much. I didn’t love him. We’d broken up a little over six months ago. We had both moved on. He had steady and traditional Michelle, and I had my lusty and erratic one-night-stands. We both had exactly what we wanted. But the fact was that I could feel that sick feeling moving up my esophagus like a grenade lodged in my throat, ready to explode.

Shit. Shit. _Shit._ I couldn’t start crying. Not here. Not at a fucking jury duty summons. _I’d_ been the one to tell him it was over. _I’d_ been the one who’d told him he was too clingy, that I needed space, that I would never, _ever_ marry – not him, not _anyone_. I wasn’t going to end up like my estranged parents, with their private school, barbecue weekends, white picket fence life. Just the idea of settling down was a threat to the life I’d created for myself. 

So when Bo got down on one knee, I ran.

Idle time was such a horrible thing for me. It made me do this kind of stupid shit, like looking at old pictures of us that he hadn’t taken down off his Facebook page yet. There we were, New Year’s Eve, kissing at the stroke of midnight in front of the Bellagio fountains. And again, his arms wrapped tightly around me after one of my gigs. And once more, with me on his back at the top of the Grand Canyon. We were _that_ couple, thanks to Bo: the couple that never stopped updating everyone else on just how cute and perfect we were. I'd given him a hard time about it, but the truth was… I didn’t hate it. As long as Bo was happy, I was happy, too – and that was the part that scared me. The idea that I felt like I needed anyone but myself in my life terrified me.

I glanced over at the old clerk, silently praying that she’d release those of us who weren’t chosen to serve. I needed a drink, and soon.

A few short minutes later, and I was out of there. Someone up there must have been looking out for me.

My feet led me to a bar I’d passed by during my lunch break. It was a real dive, and about as straight and sporty as they come, but I didn’t care as long as they served Jack Daniels.

I opened a tab and sat at the corner of the bar, nursing my drink. My eyes scanned the room, looking for anyone I could take home with me. No such luck. The guys at the bar were eyeing the girls at the bar – some of whom were eyeing me. …Fuck.

“You look lonely,” a female voice said. I looked up to see the decently attractive brunette bartender, smiling softly at me. Damn it. I didn’t need this right now.

“Oh, no, I’m not lonely. I’m just drunk,” I replied, sneering.

“Then let me buy you another one, cowboy,” she persisted, smiling wider.

“Listen, miss… you’re barking up the wrong tree,” I replied, finishing off my drink.

The woman narrowed her eyes – not in an angered way, but more… sympathetic. I really, really didn’t need that.

“Alright, but… Whoever she is, and whatever she did, she’s not worth six drinks.”

I scoffed. “He.”

“Oh,” the bartender’s expression dropped slightly. “Well… what did he do?”

I nearly slammed my glass down on the table. “What are you, lady? The FBI?” The woman didn’t even flinch. Strangers with this level of compassion always made me feel incredibly out of place. She wasn’t gonna get a good tip if she continued this way. I sighed. “He... proposed.”

“When?”

“Six months ago.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “And you’re still punishing yourself over it?”

I gritted my teeth. “Listen, this is none of your business so I suggest you back off. I’m not punishing myself. I’m a guy who’s having a hard day and drinking it off. Leave me alone,” I hissed. I grabbed my jacket, slipping it on, and got up. I’d find another bar – one where the people weren’t so fucking nosey.

“I’d like to close my tab,” I said, digging in my back pocket for my wallet.

“Sure. Do you need me to call you a cab?”

“No,” I snapped, dropping a handful of crumpled fives on the counter. “Keep the change.”

I stepped out into the cool November air and slipped a cigarette between my lips, lighting it. Smoking was a nasty habit – Bo never let me forget that, and he even got me to quit for a while – but it did calm me down. It did not, however, sober me up any. It would have been nice if it had, because the next thing I did was probably the least intelligent thing I could have done.

I was walking on autopilot, not really paying attention to where I was going. I could have guessed where my alcohol-soaked brain wanted to bring me, though. I ended up outside a very familiar house. The beige colored stucco walls of the Mediterranean style house had seen me plenty of times before. Upstairs, the light was on -- they were home. Good news, my inebriated brain told me. I tossed my cigarette to the ground, stepping on it to put it out.

Suddenly, my phone was in my hand. My finger hovered above his name. I would just hang up once I heard his voice, I promised myself.

The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. I was about to hang up when he finally answered. His voice was quiet. Concerned.

“Jared?”

I froze. It had been forever since we'd spoken. I just couldn’t bring myself to hang up. 

“Jared, I know you’re there. …Say something.”

I stayed silent for a few moments longer, but finally I spoke, my voice quavering as I fought the lump that had reappeared in my throat. “Bo… can we talk? …Please?”


	2. Bo

Michelle must have been stressing about something because she never wanted to watch cheesy cop dramas with me unless she'd had a hard day and wanted to feel extra smart. It was a guilty pleasure of mine – maybe it was something about watching the good guys win for a change. But for her, it was pure torture. She always complained that shows like these were formulaic and she always knew who the killer was a good twenty minutes before I did. She had a good sense of things that way.

I put my arm around her and kissed her temple as she slid herself closer to me underneath the sheets of our bed.

“What did they do this time?” she asked me, staring intently at the screen.

“Someone is killing all these men and cutting off their left ring fingers,” I replied. “I’ve got ten dollars on the mistress. Alex thinks otherwise,” I added, showing her the text from my brother: _you’re an idiot – it’s the 1st wife._

Michelle laughed. “Alright. Give me a few minutes. We’ll see who’s going to win that bet.”

We laid there watching the show for a bit longer and I found that I really wasn’t watching at all. I was watching Michelle. I was running my fingers along her bare, soft shoulder. And I was thinking that _this_ was what I needed – not Jared and his problems. Michelle had her shit together. She was intelligent, she was beautiful, and she wanted the same things that I wanted, for the most part. It sort of made me angry that Jared even entered my thoughts at a time like this. His name left a sour taste in my memory. Of course, Jared was just a kid; he wasn’t ready for maturity – not in the way I’d hoped, at least. Hell, when I was his age, I wasn’t about to settle down, either. Why I thought I could tame him… well, it’s beyond me.

“You’re gonna lose ten dollars,” Michelle said. “And for the record, we’ve seen this episode before.”

“What? No. No, we haven’t. …Have we?”

“Your brother is playing you like a fiddle. I’m surprised he didn’t up the ante on the bet.”

And that was when my phone rang.

“Oh for fuck’s sake… It’s probably Alex, calling to gloat,” I joked, if a little bitterly.

But looking at the phone, I knew immediately who it was. I had erased his number from my contact list ages ago, but no one else I knew had the area code 501 – Little Rock, Arkansas. My heart sunk into my stomach like a stone.

“Nope. Business call. I’ll be right back,” I said, grabbing my phone and heading into the other room.

“Business call? Who calls this late at night?”

“Paul,” I lied quickly. Michelle huffed and changed the channel on the TV to some late night talk show as I slipped into the other room and closed the door behind me.

“Jared?” My voice was barely above a whisper. There was no response, but I could hear him breathing on the other end of the line. I let a few moments of silence pass before trying again. “Jared, I know you’re there… Say something.”

I heard him draw in a deep breath. This wasn’t going to be good.

“Bo… can we talk? …Please?”

I ran my fingers through my hair with my free hand. “What do you want? Do you even know what time it is?”

“I know… I’m sorry. I just… I don’t even know why I called.”

Jared’s voice was shaky, and his words were a bit slurred. Damn. He’d been drinking. Of all the people he could have called while drunk, it had to be me.

“You’re plastered, aren’t you?”

“I’m a little drunk. And I’m… I’m outside. Please come out…”

I dropped my phone hand to my side and turned to the window. Sure enough, there he was, just as I remembered him: worn leather jacket, mussed up brown hair, and those big, blue, sad eyes staring up at the window like he was a kicked puppy. “What the fuck?!” I hissed at no one in particular, distancing myself from the window and looking away.

I put the phone back up to my ear. “You _cannot_ be here. Go home. Sober up. And don’t come back.”

“Bo… please?”

Against my better judgment, I walked back to the window and looked down at him. Maybe it was his posture, but he looked so small, even from just one story up. Perhaps if I just never went to see him – if I just hung up – he would go away. I waited in silence, the phone still to my ear.

Jared sighed in a defeated way. “Alright… I’ll go. I’m… I’m sorry.”

I watched as he pressed the button to end the call on his phone and started to drag his feet as he walked away. God, he looked pathetic. He wasn’t guilt tripping me – that wasn’t his style – but damn, he was good at doing it unintentionally.

I shoved my phone in my pocket and hurried down the stairs. Something in me wouldn’t let it end this way. Maybe I was too generous or too stupid, but it would have bothered me to leave it like this. I always _was_ good about picking up my messes.

I shut the front door quietly behind me, my bare feet uncomfortable on the rough stone beneath them.

“Jared,” I said, as loudly as I could without Michelle hearing me.

The boy whose face haunted my dreams for months after we called it quits turned around. He practically flew into my arms. He buried his face in my shoulder. He smelled of whiskey and cigarettes and caramel.

“You took up smoking again…” I commented, my arms wrapping loosely around him. I didn’t know what else to say.

“I’m sorry…”

“You keep saying that, but I don’t think you are -- about anything, I mean,” I replied.

“Then I’ll prove it.”

Before I knew what was happening, my back was pushing up against the front door. He didn’t care who saw. He didn’t care that Michelle was upstairs. All he cared about was his hands gripping my shirt, his lips on my lips, his body pressing against mine. I was pissed. But if I said I wasn’t a little turned on, I’d be lying.

I broke the kiss first. “Don’t do this, Jared. Don’t go down this road. You made your choice six months ago. You can’t just come back into someone’s life – drunk, no less – and expect everything to just return to how it was,” I growled.

Jared stepped away and wiped his mouth roughly on the back of his hand. He wasn’t angry. He was… embarrassed. He was chastised.

“You’re right… But… I _love_ you, Bo,” he said.

Those few words floored me. In the years that we’d been together, he’d never said that to me. He’d always played the aloof role. Like a Harrison Ford clone, he’d smirk and reply, “I know” whenever I said it. I’d always just assumed that was his way of saying it. But he’d never said it outright. It was all I’d ever wanted to hear from him and now that it was over, here he was, kissing me on my doorstep and saying it.

It wasn’t fair.

“Jared… fuck. Fuck. I can’t – you can’t… Just – why are you doing this?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down at his feet before looking up again to meet my gaze. “Bo, I messed up. And I can’t stand it anymore. That guy you proposed to… he’s gone. I’m better than that. I came here for you to see that. I’m begging you. Give me another chance.”

That look on his face… he meant it. Maybe I would regret this, but in the moment, I didn’t care. I grabbed Jared’s forearm and pulled him around to the back of my house. As soon as we were out of sight, my lips crashed into his. The truth was that I missed him – maybe even more than he missed me. But if he could prove he needed me the way he did… well, maybe it was worth it.

His mouth tasted like ashes, but it was warm and familiar. My fingers gripped his hair, as soft as I remembered it.

“I really did miss you,” I whispered.


	3. Jared

“You’re right. But… I love you, Bo.”

…What the fuck did I just say? The words had tumbled drunkenly out of my mouth before I could decide if I meant them or not. I wasn’t sure if the shock registered on my own face, but it sure as hell did on Bo’s.

“Jared… fuck. Fuck. I can’t – you can’t… Just – why are you doing this?” Bo managed to stammer.

Honestly, I didn’t know. I couldn’t tell you why the one thing I’d thrown away so easily was the one thing that kept coming up every time I got drunk, or lonely, or bored. But I couldn’t tell Bo that. What I needed was a reason to keep him here with me. That was all I wanted in that moment. So my lips started moving, forming words that I prayed would get me what I wanted.

“Bo, I messed up. And I can’t stand it anymore. That guy you proposed to… he’s gone. I’m better than that. I came here for you to see that. I’m begging you. Give me another chance.”

Bo studied my face and the way I held myself for a moment before responding. He seemed to be searching for a reason to turn me away, but apparently he couldn’t find any.

He grabbed my arm and pulled me around to the back of his house, the shadows consuming us until I could barely make out his expression. I didn’t get long to figure it out before he was kissing me, his lips pressing against mine, and his tongue flicking gently along my lower lip almost teasingly. It was incredible. I didn’t want to come up for air, content to drown in his arms and let him lead me, the way he always had. His fingers combed through my hair and my skin prickled pleasantly at his affection.

Bo ended the kiss, pulling away slowly and looking almost confused, as if a spell over him had just been broken.

We stood there in silence for what seemed like an eternity.

“We can’t do this,” he said finally.

I nodded, looking away. I knew that. My timing had always been pretty bad.

“…Not now, at least,” he added.

I furrowed my brows and opened my mouth to speak, but he silenced me with a finger.

“I want this – God, you don’t know how badly I want this, Jared. …But you’re not good for me. You’re just not.”

Bo took a step back and ran a hand through his hair, exasperated.

“How can I –”

“Don’t speak. Listen. This is how this is gonna go. I’m gonna go upstairs to the woman I love, and I’m never going to tell her this happened. You’re –”

“Bo, please –”

“You’re gonna leave. You’re gonna do whatever you like with any other guy in the world. But you’re never gonna come back here. I don’t want to see you again. You hear me? Now go on. Go.”

Bo’s voice quavered a little as he spoke, obviously fighting a lump in his throat. Maybe if I…

I took a step closer to him, and Bo responded immediately with two steps back.

“Didn’t you hear me? I said go!” Bo pointed an impassioned finger at the street past his house, his voice raised to scold me as if I was a dog he couldn’t keep any longer. Hell, with my hair messed up, and the chastised expression on my face, I probably looked the part well enough.

I wasn’t going to cry – that wasn’t my style. But damn if this wasn’t conjuring memories of my last night in Arkansas… though now there was less “God won’t forgive you” and more “get out of here and don’t bother coming back”. I wondered silently if that thought had crossed Bo’s mind, too.

Probably not.

Solemnly, I turned away, wordless, placing one foot in front of the other almost mechanically, as if I was on autopilot. I stopped as I neared the front of his house, just about to disappear around the corner, and I looked back at him.

“You know… I, uh… I wish you the best, Bo,” I said quietly.

And then I turned and kept walking.

God only knows why I said that. I didn’t mean it. It feels like I said a lot of things I didn’t fully mean that night. I can blame it on the alcohol all I wanted, but maybe Bo had been right about me: maybe I just wasn’t as mature as I claimed to be. All I knew was that from that night on, any time I thought of him with her, I burned up inside. I hated her. I hated her for being everything that Bo wanted from me, and I hated her for being closer to his age than me, and I hated her stupid blonde hair and her swamp green eyes and those skinny fingers of hers that I knew traced the same places on him as mine had, once upon a time.

And no easy screw-of-the-night kind of guy could change that.

I even took a lookalike home with me one night.

He had the eyes, and that goofy grin…

I let him top me.

But the second we were finished, he said, with his fingers still tracing my clit and a shit eating grin on his lips, “Man, that was just as good as fucking a normal boy.”

I stared daggers into him. Bo would have never had the gall to say that.

“Really? ‘Cause, for me, that wasn’t nearly as good as fucking a hung guy,” I spat, the most spiteful smirk I could muster forming on my lips.

“What the hell? You get off on humiliation or something?”

“Or something. Get out of my house. This _abnormal boy_ is bored.”

A lightbulb went off in his mind. “Oh. I didn’t mean it like –”

I shook my head, refusing his apology outright. He had ruined my fantasy – that was bad enough.

The lookalike sighed. “It’s 4 am – where am I supposed to go?”

“Go home, walk on the Strip, find a couch to surf on… It’s really not my problem. What I’m saying is: get lost.”

The doppelganger picked his clothes up off the floor, getting dressed as quickly as he could.

He glared at me. “Fuck you, man.”

I shrugged, not breaking eye contact with him. “You already did.”

He slammed the door. I flinched.

He wasn’t Bo.


End file.
